


you're makin' me a boy with luv

by postfixrevolution



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), the self indulgent sylvannie kissing practice fic i deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22934506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: "Look," he begins unhelpfully, "being bad at kissing—""I'm notbad!"This time, it's Sylvain's turn to give her alook."I... I just need to practice," she huffs, crossing her arms. "Practice makes perfect.""You sound like you'relookingfor a chance to practice." He doesn't mean for it to sound as flirtatious as it does, but old habits die hard. What's Annette going to do, anyway—"Yousound like you're offering to help."—agree?Wait.What?
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Annette Fantine Dominic/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 26
Kudos: 107





	you're makin' me a boy with luv

Annette always reacts the same way when cornered: in full force, erupting in a burst of flames as fiery as her hair. That, since they parted five years ago, has not changed.

Her eyes are grey on a good day, the soft cloud cover of a cool spring day before it rains. When she reacts like this, Sylvain can swear he sees them flash with the electric brilliance of lightning. She's every natural disaster that can bowl him over without a second glance, a thunderstorm and a forest fire with the sweetest voice Sylvain's sure he's ever heard. 

It's sweet even as it swears at him, glaring at him with the same force that Sylvain is sure had carved Ailell's scar onto the ailing earth. He holds both his hands up, offering surrender. Annette doesn't seem to buy it.

"It's okay not to have had your first kiss," he says, trying to sound as inoffensive as possible. It doesn't really work, less because of his perfectly peaceful tone and more because of the fact that — well, he's him. Annette knows that as much as he does, and her lips twist into an angry scowl.

"That is a _gross_ exaggeration and we _both_ know it," she sniffs. arms crossed. " _You_ , Sylvain, are a liar."

Sylvain nods, accepting that. He likes to think he's been lying less these days, what with the war making it hard to find women he has the patience or motivation to lie to, but she's not wrong. 

"You're not wrong," he acquiesces diplomatically. But then, "Wait, _when_ was your first kiss?"

Annette makes an offended sound, something between a choke and a growl. It's kind of Felix-y, which Sylvain will freely admit is very cute. 

"It was— You were there!" she exclaims, gesturing wildly. They're making quite the scene, conversing loudly about first kisses and Sylvain's lying habits, but the library is empty. That's probably for the better. 

"I think I'd remember that," Sylvain says, skepticism doing nothing to ease Annette's veritable maelstrom. "I don't think I could kiss anyone with a _longer_ line of people who would kill me for trying."

"It wasn't _you_ ," Annette groans. She turns away, a slight blush on her cheeks as she glares holes into the carpet. "It was Ashe," she mumbles. "I kissed him during the ball."

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah."

And then Sylvain, because he doesn't have a functioning sense of self preservation, asks, "Does that count? I'm pretty sure that kiss is the reason why Ashe likes boys now."

Annette rounds on him, eyes flashing. There's lightning in that thunderstorm now, and the odds of being struck have never been higher. He shakes his hands, still raised in mock surrender.

"Hey, calm down there, raindrop," he laughs, trying not to sound as nervous as the thought of her spellcasting skills is making him. She narrows her eyes, storming forward to poke him in the chest. It's a bit of a reach, considering she's at eye level with his chest as is, but she manages to make it far more intimidating than it reasonably should be.

"That's not— I _know_ you know that's not how it works, Sylvain."

"I might."

Annette gives his chest another shove, but she otherwise deflates, curling back into herself with a huff. Sylvain takes this as permission to lower his arms.

"Honestly, Annie, it's not that big a deal," he offers helpfully. "When I was your age—" and Annette cuts him off with a _look_. Ah, that's probably not the best way to go about this. Sylvain tries again. 

"When _Felix_ was your age—" but then he stops short again, involuntarily reminded of his best friend and that one sauna incident, well before either of them had reached the tender age that Annette holds now. He mentally goes through most of his close friends' first kisses, most of which involve him, and realizes he has no solid argument whatsoever. Annette seems to pick up on this.

"You kissed all your friends, didn't you?" she deadpans. " _Before_ you were my age?"

Sylvain offers her a guilty smile.

"You are _no_ help."

Yeah, that's fair.

"Look, if this is about the Ashe thing," he begins unhelpfully, "I'm pretty sure it wasn't because of you. Being bad at kissing—"

"I'm not _bad!_ "

This time, it's Sylvain's turn to give her a _look_. 

"I... I just need to practice," she huffs, crossing her arms. "Practice makes perfect."

"You sound like you're _looking_ for a chance to practice." He doesn't mean for it to sound as flirtatious as it does, but old habits die hard. What's Annette going to do, anyway—

" _You_ sound like you're offering to help."

—agree?

Wait.

_What?_

Sylvain does a double take. He waits an added moment for her to take it back, but when Annette remains silent, bright eyes still turned toward him in thunderous challenge, he speaks slowly.

"Are you asking, Annette?"

She purses her lips, and Sylvain can see the restless machination of a decision playing out in her mind. 

" _Maybe_ ," she mutters quietly. Then, louder, "Yeah. Yeah, I _am_. If _you're_ so good at kissing, then there's no reason for you not to help me out." 

It's phrased less like a suggestion and more like a demand, and Sylvain can't help the quick laugh it eases out of him. There's plenty of reasons why he shouldn't — starting with the long line of people that will gleefully sheath a sword in him for trying — but he knows she's more than smart enough to see them all. 

"It's your call," he says, because he's nothing if not eager to give his friends an open invitation not to get involved with him. Annette doesn't acknowledge it, which isn't exactly a surprise, so he makes it clear that he's willing to help her, too. "I'm all yours, Annette."

 _That_ statement doesn't go ignored. Annette grins in response, pleased.

"Meet me in my room after dinner then!" she says, and Sylvain agrees, swearing that he won't be late. Annette skips out of the library after that, but Sylvain spends the time it takes for her to disappear wondering if they actually know what they're getting themselves into.

* * *

After dinner, Sylvain is _still_ sure that neither of them are taking this as seriously as they could be. It's one thing to trust Annette with his life on the battlefield, but it's an entirely different thing to...kiss her? Okay, there are definitely some flaws in his logic there, but war really screws up one's idea of propriety. Sylvain had always thought he would die for Annette before he would agree to kiss her, but he figures it's not a _terrible_ intermediary step in their friendship.

So, he follows through. 

Sylvain comes to her room as promised, divested of his full body armor. They end up sitting on the edge of Annette's bed with varying levels of awkwardness. Sylvain leans back on his palms, side-eyeing Annette as she stares holes into her rug, very much looking like she isn't sure if this is a good idea. Sylvain has absolutely no plans to hold her to this, surprised enough that she had agreed, and turns to face her fully.

"Look, Annette. We don't have to—" 

She rounds on him and winds a rough hand into his collar, tugging him down to her level. Their foreheads only barely escape crashing together.

"Whoa, _hey_ ," he garbles, trying to steady himself with hands hovered over her hips, not quite sure he has permission to touch. "Slow down, Annie." Annette's hand trembles slightly, either from nerves or how tightly she holds to his collar, and Sylvain reaches up to wrap careful fingers around it, trying to ease the tension away. 

"We can take it slow," he offers quietly, lowering the hand into her lap. "If you still want to do this."

"I..." Annette bites at her bottom lip, lifting grey eyes up to meet his. "I do," she nods. Slower this time, she lifts her hands up, splaying them across Sylvain's chest. She stares at them for an extended second before sliding them up to his shoulders, resting her hands at this base of his neck. Her hands, he notices, are soft, missing the kind of roughness that comes with wielding a weapon.

"Alright," he nods. And then he nods again, feeling oddly nervous despite his past experience. Maybe it's because Annette trusts him so easily. It's strange, being trusted so completely with something so precious. He wasn't kidding about Annette having the longest line of people who would kill him for trying to kiss her. If Sylvain is being honest, he's somewhere on that list, too. 

"There's only so much I can explain," he begins lamely, "before I need to, well, _show_ you. If I go too far, just—"

"Tell you," Annette finishes. "I know. I don't think you will, though," she admits, a soft giggle colouring her words. It's the most at ease he's seen her since he came in, and that helps to lift his spirits. "I trust you, Sylvain."

That admission forces a breathy laugh from him and, emboldened by it, Sylvain leans down to rest his forehead against Annette's, watching the way her breath catches as he leans close. From this close up, the freckles that scatter shapeless constellations over her skin are visible even through the rose-red blush that blossoms on her cheeks.

"I guess I don't need to tell you how to set the mood," he jokes, reaching to tuck a loose bundle of hair behind her ear. Annette tries to follow the motion, eyes searching for something just outside her field of vision, and the action is impossibly endearing. "You sure know how to charm a guy."

"Is that all it takes?" she teases, inching a hand up into his hair, playing with the tufts just behind his ear. "All of us trust you, you know." Her lips take on a sly smirk as she glances up at him. "Don't tell me you've kissed _all_ of us."

He butts his nose against hers in response, unable to help his snort. 

"Here's a tip, raindrop. It's usually bad form to talk about kissing other people when you're trying to kiss someone specific."

"I see your point," Annette giggles. It's always been a pleasant sound, musical as the lilt of her voice when she sings, but it's made softer by the warm pink of her cheeks and the quiet quality of it, breathed between them like it's a sound only meant for the two of them to share. "Why do you keep calling me raindrop?" she asks, changing the topic.

Sylvain hums, eyes falling shut as he gathers his words. "Well, you've got perfect raincloud-coloured eyes, you know? When we first started attending Garreg Mach, I couldn't stand how warm it was. One of the only times the weather didn't make me absolutely miserable was when it rained. The look in your eyes reminds me of that."

"Oh."

His eyes fly open at her brisk reply, searching those raincloud eyes to see if he's somehow messed up before they even began. Her eyes are screwed shut, but he can feel the burst of warmth that has flooded to her cheeks. Sylvain can't help but wince. "If you don't like it, I can—"

"No!" Annette shakes her head as best she can, a stilted motion that's hindered by Sylvain's palm cupping her cheek, fingers still half pushed into her bangs in an attempt to tuck them away. Her fingers curl at the nape of his neck like she needs something to tether herself to. Sylvain can't help the stutter of his pulse at the thought that her anchor might be _him_. "You don't have to stop, I just— It's—"

Annette growls at her own ineloquence, but before Sylvain can try to calm her, she surges up, lips meeting his with the crashing urgency of a lightning strike. Sylvain is caught entirely by surprise, hand flying to her waist to steady himself, to find something for _him_ to tether himself to. Annette practically shudders into him, melting with a quiet sigh as Sylvain regains himself enough to kiss her back.

Her arms come up further, hooking around this neck to pull him closer, and Sylvain acquiesces, tilting his head to make room for her to press in closer, humming sweetly against his mouth. Annette, as expected, is relentless and eager, pushing and letting herself be pushed with a voracity that Sylvain has seen in the way she studies and casts spells. He thinks of the lightning that flashes her thunderstorm eyes, except this time, he can feel it buzzing between them as Annette parts her lips, tentatively licking at the seam of his lips.

Sylvain leans back just enough to give them room to breathe, lips still dragging against Annette's as he breathes out a gentle chuckle.

"Easy there, raindrop," he hums, carding a hand through her hair. Annette shivers at the gesture, fingers tightening around the hair at the nape of his neck. " _I'm_ supposed to be the one teaching _you_."

"Think you could be doing a better job," Annette huffs, blinking her eyes open just enough to glare at him through the lowered curtain of her lashes. Shit, it's a good look. "Why did you _stop_?" she demands, and the petulance forces another laugh from his throat, fondness welling up from his chest in the shape of a grin, bright and undeniable. 

"Forgot what an eager student you are," he quips, and Annette pouts at him, unwinding her arms from around his neck to grab at his shoulders again, tipping him off balance as she attempts to climb onto his lap. The attempt does little to quiet the bubble of Sylvain's laughter, and he shifts hands to her waist to lift her, listening to the way her breath catches at how easily he settles her atop him, thighs bracketing his hips.

"Better?" 

Annette only hums lazily in reply, eyes drifting shut as she leans back in. She has the height advantage this time, perched atop him like she is. Sylvain has always known Annette was small, but knowing it like this — in the context of how eagerly she leans down to kiss him, palms fitting perfect against the curve of his jaw — feels entirely different. 

This time, Sylvain meets her halfway, hands idling at her hips as they kiss. When Sylvain runs his tongue over the bottom swell of her lip, she gasps, leaning into the press of it with her lips parted. Sylvain tries not to memorize the way her breath comes out in a trembling shudder as she sighs it into his mouth, but it's hard not to when Annette falls into him like an inevitability, like a shooting star come to dive head-first into his gravity. 

She's open in everything — the curiosity with which she explores the tousled fall of his hair, the little hums and whimpers that sound in the back of her throat when he presses his tongue against hers, running lazy hands up and down her sides. Annette chases the same reactions from him with relentless abandon, dragging featherlight fingernails against his scalp and humming pleasantly when motion makes him shudder, dripping heat down the curve of his spine. The relentlessness doesn't even stop there, because Annette grabs a small fistful of his hair next, tugging sharply and clawing something wrecked past the back of his throat. It's a foreign sound, sends him reeling back with his heart in his throat. The only thing faster than the rise and fall of his chest is the war-drum of his pulse, deafening behind his ears.

"Annette—" 

" _Do that again_ ," she mumbles — eyes still shut, lips still spit-slick and very, thoroughly kissed — and _goddess_ , does Sylvain want to. He leans in first this time, melting in time to the pleased sound she hums against his lips, fingers returning to their restless ruin of his hair. His breath catches when Annette scoots herself closer, hips pulled flush to his as she brings them chest to chest, and Sylvain breaks away to duck his head into her shoulder, hands firm on her waist. 

"Gimme a second," he breathes. He honestly might need more than a second. The brush of his lips over her exposed neck as he speaks makes her breath come out shaky and abrupt, fingers tightening into fists amidst the tangle of his hair. Goddess, he's never going to get enough of the way Annette runs her hands through it, like ruining him is the only thing those pretty hands could ever want. 

"Yeah," she huffs, just as breathy, leaning heavily into the press of his mouth against her neck. "A second's good. A second's _great_." Sylvain can feel the faint flutter of her pulse just beneath his lips, bowing in closer so he can kiss it proper. It's hard to bite back the smile that curls at his lips at the whimper that catches in her throat as he lines her neck with open-mouthed kisses, fingers twitching in his hair with each one.

"Syl _vain_ —" 

He pauses at the slope of her shoulder, lips straddling the soft cotton of her neckline and the heated silk of her skin. "Hm?"

She tugs him back up in place of an answer, angling for a kiss that Sylvain gladly reciprocates, chest swelling when he feels the way she smiles contentedly into it. Annette pushes into his mouth this time, equal parts tentative and curious, and Sylvain makes sure to voice his enjoyment at every new push and pull, revelling in the pleased sound she makes when he tilts his head in closer, like he can't get enough. He could spend all day kissing Annette, Sylvain decides, drowning in the rising tide of her confidence as she puzzles out every perfect way to take him apart. 

Sylvain's arms have drawn a circle around them when Annette finally resurfaces for air, just far enough to remain in the lazy loop of his arms, palms splayed against the small of her back. She pulls away like it's the hardest thing she's ever done, like she hasn't had enough of the soft press of Sylvain's mouth against hers. A sigh tumbles off her tongue as she leans back, hazy heat floating dizzily toward Sylvain. The skitter of her breath across his skin feels like the insistent warmth of a summer breeze. For Sylvain, summer at the monastery has always bordered on unbearable, but something about the sweetness with which Annette sighs makes him want to rethink that.

"How are you so _good_ at this," she pouts. Sylvain keeps his eyes lazily shut, but he can hear it, the petulant curl to her breathless tone. There's a wry curve to his lips as he keeps his forehead leaned against Annette's, hand raising to idle over the curve of her cheekbone, relishing in the way she leans so eagerly in. It's thrilling, being known in the way Annette has known him and _still_ so wanted. For some reason, it's unexpected that the feeling comes from _Annette_ of all people, but it makes perfect sense. Annette has always had kind eyes and a kinder heart. 

"I've had a lot of practice," Sylvain explains, unable to help the self-depreciative snort that punctuates it.

"It's not _fair_ ," Annette insists, hands gliding up from Sylvain's back to bunch into the unruly tufts of his hair. She tugs once, hard enough to force Sylvain's eyes open. Hazel eyes fly open to find Annette, to find the swirling thunderstorm of her eyes, ready to swallow him whole. Her grip loosens almost instantly, something apologetic in the way she cards slender fingers through the rest of his hair, and Sylvain figures it's best to save the quips about hair pulling for another time.

He's not immune to the voice that tells him there probably shouldn't _be_ another time.

"Practice makes perfect, raindrop," he hums, eyes fluttering shut under the soothing ebb and flow of Annette's fingers brushing through his hair. His hands drift down to rest around her waist, feeling undeniably content at the gentle weight of Annette pressed chest to chest against him. She makes a noncommittal noise in response, continuing in her quiet ministrations. 

Her hands decrescendo to a quiet stop, stilling to cradle his face, thumbs curved perfectly over the swell of his cheekbone. Sylvain peels his eyes open to see her studying him intently, a concentrated furrow to the elegant arch of her brows. Honesty comes naturally to Annette, and the forthright intensity with which she stares makes Sylvain feel larger than he is. Like everything he's said and done was so he could end up here, feeling dizzy on the sense of belonging that she's always given freely. He's not sure he could ever fathom how much room Annette holds in her heart. He can barely fathom that there's a place for _him_ in there, too, but Annette's always been impossible to deny — he can't understand it, but he accepts it, letting Annette stay cradled in his arms for as long as she'll have him.

"Help me practice some more, then," she insists, lifting grey eyes up to his. There's more of that petal-pink blush on her cheeks, as pretty and hopeful as the sunrise that promises another new day, and Sylvain can't help the swell of his chest, the crash of an idiotic grin onto his awestruck features. 

"Little old me?" he quips, eyes bright. Annette makes an embarrassed noise, but she doesn't look away. 

"Yes _you_ ," she grumbles, pouting as she gives his hair another tug. Sylvain laughs out loud at that one, a kind of elation that starts low in his stomach and simmers uncontrollably over. He laughs until it _aches_ , until his lungs beg him for air that isn't heavy with the sound of his own mirth and Annette's novel protests, a sharp _"stop laughing!"_ that's coloured with giggles of her own, a soprano harmony to the discordant symphony that swells between them. 

"I mean it," she huffs, giving him a gentle headbutt as his laughter subsides. 

"I know you do," he tells her, not an ounce of charm to it. It's just the truth. He'd believe anything she tells him, especially if she'll say it with the same soft smile she wears now — close-lipped and twisted at the corners, fading exasperation and the immeasurable fondness that paints every other relaxed line of her features, looking at him like he's something she could love. 

"Then kiss me again." She speaks with a sense of finality, like she's already won whatever argument they almost, sort-of had. Sylvain's not sure he could have denied her, anyway. "I'm not asking anyone else. I'm only asking you, Sylvain."

There's a whole lot of implications there. They make his breath catch, hands trembling where they rest on her hips, coming up to clumsily tuck back the loose cascade of her bangs. Maybe Annette notices, because she comes to press her hands against the back of his, guiding him through the motion with an impossible grace. 

"You're asking for a lot, raindrop."

"I think you can handle it," she laughs, blissfully unaware that Sylvain's coming to think he could listen to that sound forever. He leans into her, feeling very much like he's sitting in the eye of her storm, and bumps their noses gently, lips barely grazing hers.

"Then how can I say no?" He flashes her another grin, crooked and captivated as Sylvain leans in to kiss her — once and twice and drawing back in between each to hear the laughter that tumbles from her lips, eyes shining like the night sky gave up all its stars to put them in her eyes. "I'm all yours, Annette."

Annette kisses him hard, and he's pretty sure she knows.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/panntherism)!


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